the science of false, repetitive memories
by emptymatchbox
Summary: Sherlock remembers every face he's ever encountered. He's certainly never met a John Watson, though, or has he?/ Or in which Fate screws up and erases again and again and again, and Sherlock keeps forgetting John Watson. / Before ASiP. / AU.


_the science of false, repetitive memories_

Summary: Sherlock remembers every face he's ever encountered. He's certainly never met a John Watson, though, or has he?/ Or in which Fate screws up and erases again and again and again, and Sherlock keeps forgetting John Watson.

Warnings: Character death and mentions of drug use. Possible triggers.

Notes: AUish, before ASIP. Also possible OOCness.

Personal Notes: I am so, so sorry- I don't know what happened. And also note that this fic is veryveryvery confusing.

* * *

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It's strange, part of Sherlock thinks. Unbeknownst to most of the world, he remembers every face he's ever had the displeasure of meeting, whether it took him a moment to recall it or two weeks.

Or at least, he thinks he does. No, more than thinks. _Believes_.

(And yes; despite popular belief, he does know that Lestrade's first name is. Gregson Lestrade sounds a bit ugly in his mind, though, so he stores the name on a quiet, unvisited shelf in his mind palace unless he needs to recollect it.)

So he knows he has never met a John Watson, and most likely never all, there must be plenty in the world; John Watson was a common name, one that echoed with normalcy.

So why does it feel like he knows a certain John Watson better than the back of his hand?

.

The first time he sees John, he's nine and almost too young, a large contrast to John's steadfast age. Sherlock is taking the detour home, just so he would know the neighborhood better. After all, he wants to complete his mental map of the place before they move.

(He also doesn't want to arrive home with a split lip and a black eye again. Mummy was horrified the last time that occurred, [but she wouldn't be necessarily surprised if he did.])

The street is almost closed down for the night. Sherlock passes by the barber shop, glancing to see the employee finishing his last, blonde-haired, now mustache-free customer.

Sherlock immediately snaps his head to the shop, but it's closed. An old sign declaring its foreclosure hangs off the doorknob limply.

When he looks again, the shop is dark and abandoned and hasn't been opened in the past thirty years.

He has always been able to trust his mind, but could he, really?

Sherlock runs the rest of the way home, hoping to leave the ominous feeling behind him.

He doesn't.

.

Sherlock tries to keep the incident locked in his young mind, to find why that man was familiar, but it dissipates into a series of stray thoughts.

.

He's William Scott Sherlock Holmes and nineteen, but everyone at the bar believes he's Shezza Watterson and twenty-two. No-one questions him and his ridiculous pseudonym because the other warm bodies around him are also ridiculously labeled.

It's the same, short glance in the corner of his eye that will draw his breath and attention to John Watson. It's exactly the same man he'd seen exactly ten years, fifty-five days, eight hours, and twenty minutes ago.

(Or the man he thinks he knows- the name seems oddly familiar.)

It's not like he counts each minute without this 'John' (_the name, how does he know the name?_); that would be absurd.

The second look brings the same result as the first. The bar is empty, quiet, and abandoned. Sherlock drops his empty, dust-filled glass onto the termite-infested wood and stands. The glass just rolls, determined not to shatter. Nothing breaks except the uneasy almost-silence and his thoughts, a bit. Maybe.

Many men are brilliant, but most of them are mad.

Sherlock briefly wonders whether he was a genius or a madman, but then decides that he's just high.

He flushes the drugs down the toilet he got from who-knows-where and doesn't try them again. At least, not at the time.

Nicotine patches suffice his mind for now, but do those really count?

.

Later, Sherlock declares himself a madman as he picks out a new pack of drugs.

Morphine makes him forget, for a while. Cocaine makes him remember.

The fact that John Watson is one of the paramedics carrying him doesn't help.

(John Watson was going to kill him some day, whether indirectly or not.)

In the end, he forgets the answers to his questions (-thewhothewhatthewhenandthe_whyJohnwhy-_) about John Watson.

The drugs, however, are a newfound thing.

.

Sherlock's also seen John die so many times he's not even fazed. (He is. And the funny thing is, he's starting to remember John Watson.)

There's a John Watson found drowned in a club swimming pool, becoming the-suicide-that-wasn't-a-suicide. His shoes are still missing, and though the police lazily look around and tell him to screw off, the new DI learns to keep him around.

(Later, they'll demand that the victim's name was Carl Powers and all Sherlock could do is agree.)

Then he's call in for a murder- John Watson. He finds this one on a sofa, posture slack and regular, save for his head on the table.

Then another. He hears a building, burning, burning, and burning, and this John heroically, stupidly, goes to try to find his wife and burns.

And another John is found at the park, bullet in his brain and gun in hand.

Sherlock doesn't need to look at the body to know it's him.

It's not like he wants to, anyways.

(Molly gave him a heart once without his pleading, feeling generous. When he finally took a look at it, the medical label stated 'Watson, John Hamish' in her doctor's cursive. He rushed to the bathroom, head pounding, stomach rolling.)

And ibid, repeat, reiterate; the utter redundancy. Life goes on.

.

There's a supposed new man in the Scotland Yard. His name is John Watson, Lestrade tell him.

Less than twenty minutes later, Lestrade claims he doesn't know the man by the name and that this 'John Watson' was nonexistent.

Thirty minutes later, so does Sherlock.

.

He finds him, John Watson. It takes just a few taps on a keyboard and a few people to convince, and at the end of it all he's quite disappointed that Mycroft hasn't updated his security since the last incident.

Sherlock reads the file on this 'John Watson,' propping his feet on his desk lazily.

_Eighty, _it reads_, earlier family history with lung cancer. Residing at St.'s Bart's Memorial Hospital._

But alive.

Sherlock denies that he got his hopes up (but he does.)

.

John knows, somehow. Sherlock's not surprised.

"You need to forget me," John says, leaning back in the plush hospital bed and sighing tiredly.

"I have." He replies smoothly, pretending to be detached.

"It wasn't enough." Sherlock forgets who said the line: himself or John. It doesn't matter anyways; they both know it's true.

The walls are white, unmarked by the mistakes Fate has made. In fact, everything is white. They're both surrounded by white IVs and white walls and white plastic chairs almost demanding to break that it makes Sherlock think about how many times Fate tries to erase herself again and again but the one fatal mistake she makes is them.

"I died."

The words haunt them both, but neither of them show it.

"Multiple times." Sherlock replies smoothly, again. They're both silent, for a while, knowing that the 'joke' is something they're both not supposed to get.

"I died, Sherlock," John repeats. [And ibid, repeat, reiterate; the utter redundancy. Life goes on.] "I haven't even existed."

Sherlock is silent. The next words John brings are a physical and emotional pain to them both. John coughs, the crimson somehow not marring the white sheets he hides in. It's a miracle, but not to them. This proves John Watson doesn't exist.

They both know that he'll die by Sherlock's side, as if he's supposed to. Sherlock's not ready, and he will never be. "Let me go."

If Fate was an artist, this was one of the lives she continued to draw and draw and erase again, again, again. And ibid, repeat,reiterate; the utter redundancy. Life goes on for Sherlock, but not for John.

This John Watson dies without a fight. Sherlock doesn't cry, or at least he tries not to.

(_Caring is not the advantage._)

.

Later, after he plays his violin, he'll feel that his face is wet, but not know how it came to that way.

An hour later, he'll forget John's death. Two more and it's night and it's cold and he's also forgotten everything about John Watson except his name.

John Watson, John Watson, John Watson.

The name leaves as it comes, and Fate erases John Watson from reality until she can draw him again. And again. And agai-

And ibid, repeat, reiterate; the utter redundancy. Life goes on, [but not for John Watson.]

.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" It's an odd question, sort of.

Sherlock doesn't know why this face looks familiar, but he's determined to let that question go.

"Afghanistan."

The answer should him a memory or a thousand, but he doesn't recall a single one.

.

Fin.

.

_Dedicated to Katrina. _Happy Early Christmas.


End file.
